In The Violent Daylight
by Maple Fay
Summary: Based on a Tumblr prompt: First Encounter of Charles and Elsie. Derived from a drabble, strongly inspired by F tM's "No Light, No Light". Oneshot.


_**A/N:**__ Between some Tumblr graphics of "Charles and Elsie's First Encounter", a 100-word drabble I wrote yesterday, my overly emotional state and Florence and the Machine's _No Light, No Light_, the following story has been born._

_I promise I'll go back to writing _More Improper Behaviour_ as soon as possible, but I simply had to get it out of my system. I took some liberties for the purpose of the plot, and made Elsie a little younger than she should be._

_I'd be thrilled to hear what you thought of it._

* * *

><p>Charles Carson isn't used to dealing with housemaids that don't look bashful and slightly terrified upon entering Downton Abbey's great hall for the first time. Miss Hughes, he finds, is neither: she simply stands there, young, fresh and smelling of spring meadows under a sky as blue as her eyes, raising her head proudly and giving him a bright smile. He frowns, not sure what to make of all this. "Why are you smiling like that?"<p>

Something twinkles in those deep blue eyes as she playfully bites her lip. "I feel that I'm going to be happy here, Mr. Carson. Very, very happy…"

His frown deepens as he purses his lips. "I believe the main objective of a housemaid is to be grateful, and concentrate on her work instead of wasting precious time on pointless daydreaming."

The light in her eyes flickers and wanes. "Yes, Mr. Carson," she says curtly, and turns on her heel, walking purposefully in the direction of the dining room.

He watches her retreat, back straight, head held proudly high, and in the quiet of his heart begins to doubt Mrs. Reynolds' decision to employ the girl. She's clearly too naïve, and too prone to believe in all the romantic nonsense.

She would _never_ fit in here.

* * *

><p>She proves him wrong.<p>

Strong and competent, caring and kind, decisive and clever, hard-working and reliable, she is everything he could hoped for in a member of this household—and not just that.

She is so much more.

She gets on very well with most of the staff, and if she doesn't, she at least tries to act civilly and politely towards those who happen to find themselves on her wrong side. She's just and fair, never gossips with vile intent; she stands up for the younger maids and footmen whenever they are teased or bullied by their colleagues and neither Mrs. Reynolds nor Charles himself are around to box some ears.

In a span of two months, she goes from a newbie nobody knows what to think of, to an indispensable individual everybody trusts.

"She really is a treasure, our Elsie," Mrs. Reynolds tells him during their customary evening tea, about eight weeks after Miss Hughes marched away from him and took a piece of his self-confidence with her. "Wouldn't you agree, Charles?"

He wants to frown at her using his Christian name, but she _is_ much older than him, and has known him since he was a second footman, so he lets it slide and nods distractedly, sipping on his (hideously over-brewed) tea.

"You don't usually talk much, though, you and her, do you?"

He puts his cup down on a saucer with much more force than necessary. "I make sure to inquire about the wellbeing of all the members of the staff, Mrs. Reynolds, and Elsie Hughes is no exception—"

She waves him off with an infuriatingly maternal smile. "You didn't think she'd manage."

It's not a question. "No, I didn't," he admits begrudgingly. "She's quite young for a head housemaid—one can never be sure what could become of someone so inexperienced."

Mrs. Reynolds shakes her head in awe. "She's two and thirty, Charles. And I believe she'd gained more than sufficient experience in her former position." She stands up from her chair and gathers their empty cups. "Sometimes I wonder if you ever actually _look _at her."

* * *

><p>He does, actually. Many a time.<p>

Especially in the afternoons.

He marvels at the way the light touches her hair when she sits in the servants hall, drinking tea and laughing with other maids, fending off any attempts of flirting the footmen make towards her. His eyes follow the delicate movements of her throat as she swallows, the flickers of her tongue across her lips.

He enjoys the slight blush that rises over her cheeks when she discusses something with passion. She's stubborn, he finds, has an opinion on virtually every subject, and is prepared to verbally spar with anyone who tries to question her views.

Anyone but him.

For she never speaks up if he joins the conversation, deliberately focusing her attention on the state of her nails (which are always impeccably clean, of course).

* * *

><p>Sometimes he wonders what he is to her. If he is anything but a man-shaped hole in the world, a silence between the words, a piece of stray thread clinging to her sleeve. She's never disrespectful, and she doesn't openly ignore him—she simply closes her mind off from him.<p>

He wonders if she's happy.

She smiles, yes; she laughs, she jokes with the others, she even sings to herself when she thinks no one can hear her—but he never sees that light in her eyes again.

* * *

><p>The sun is bright on this late June afternoon, casting a warm, orange glow over the world as he walks back from the village, a parcel he picked up from the post office resting securely in the crook of his arm. He opens the gate and walks into the back garden—straight into Elsie Hughes, armed with a carpet beater and rendering a vicious attack on an innocent piece of carpeting hanging from a tree.<p>

He takes a moment to appraise her: a few strands of hair flowing in the wind, a peachy glow of her skin in the sun, a slight frown adorning her face as she raises her arm to issue another blow.

_Bam!_

Particles of dust fly off the cloth like little butterflies caught in the light, enveloping Elsie with a golden cloud, twirling around her as she strikes the carpet repeatedly, fighting some imaginary opponent.

For all he knows, she's probably fighting _him_.

Time flies, punctuated by the noises of the beater connecting heavily with the carpet; they hang in midair, protected from the outer world by sunlight and dust, her a Valkyrie, him a statue just outside her field of vision.

He would have liked this moment to last forever, but it doesn't, of course not—the beater slips from her hand, and as she bends over to pick it up from the grass, her eyes lock with his.

"Mr. Carson."

That's all she says—just his name. The sound vibrates through the air, carried over with the last particles of dust that float towards him, touching his jacket, the skin on his face, his lips.

He steps forward, eyes fixed on her face, committing every little detail to his memory; the waning light should be warm and gentle, but it's not, not to her; it accentuates every line, brings out every single eyelash…

Every tear.

It's completely unlike him to drop the parcel to the ground and rush to her side, but he does it anyway, touching her shoulder soothingly. He brings his other hand up to her face, almost, but not quite, touching. "What happened?" he asks, breathless, feeling his heart clench painfully in his chest.

She shakes her head and bites her lip, looking down but not stepping away from him, which he decides to take as a good sign. "Sometimes I think you might have been right," she says in a voice barely above a whisper. "Sometimes I don't even know what I'm doing here."

He wants to tell her that he's sorry, to make everything alright, to make sure none of the tears pooling in her eyes ever falls.

He's not sure what she wants him to say.

So he gathers her in his arms instead, resting his chin on the top of her head, and stands completely still as she cries into his shoulder, hands clawing at the back of his jacket. She still smells like a meadow, and she is as soft and as warm as he imagined, fitting into him perfectly.

She pulls away much too soon for his liking, and looks up at him with bright, serious eyes. The sun has dropped further down when he held her, and the hue it casts on her features has become deeper, redder, more pronounced. He wonders if this is what her face looks like, illuminated by candlelight in the near darkness of her room, and makes a silent pledge to find it out one day, should she be willing to accept his—yet unspoken—apology and grant them one more chance to start over.

Some of his thoughts must be showing on his face, for Elsie quirks an eyebrow and puts one slender finger across his lips before he's had a chance to say anything. "I think I prefer it when you support me, rather than patronize me," she says, the playful tone betraying her solemn expression.

He sees the light is back in her eyes, and his heartbeat quickens.

He presses his lips against her finger, cool despite the exercise she's just had, and risks a smile. His mouth feels hard, unaccustomed to forming itself into an image of happiness. "I shall try to remember that."

"Do," she answers promptly, and looks towards the abandoned carpet, the trees, and the house looming behind them. "I may need the support if I'm to stay here."

He nods, acutely aware of what her absence would mean to him.

He doesn't dare to put his feelings into words—he's not sure what his feelings _are_, exactly—but he knows he'll do anything to make her stay.

He follows her to the house, and notices for the first time how their pace synchronizes perfectly.

**The End**


End file.
